He told us about the picture* and the furniture. The sun shone weakly through the piate-glass windows and dust motes swam in the light. The scent was warmed out of some dried rose-leaves and I bent down over the blue bowl to smell them.

The painter joined us again as the librarian was showing us some Chinese Chippendale chairs. The door opened just as he was saying, “The Duchess is thinking of putting these somewhere else.” I remember the look the painter gave the librarian, as if he hated all this talk of duchesses and Chinese Chippendale.

After the state-rooms we went into the long library. The librarian climbed up the early Victorian, cast-iron spiral staircase and brought down books for our wonder and admiration. We all remarked on the brightness of the gold, but the librarian said:

“There’s nothing to go wrong with the gold, it’s the brightness of the colours that is so marvellous in these old manuscripts.” Then he locked them up again behind the gilt, open-trelliswork doors.

Next, he moved towards a picture on an easel. It was covered with a little curtain of grey velvet and we crowded round, waiting for him to show it to us. When the little triptych was sparkling like precious stones in front of us, he described the specially constructed box it fitted into; so that it could be thrown out of the window in case of fire and yet arrive unharmed in the fountain or on the flower-bed below.

On the desk near the door was a lovely Greek bronze head. Its empty eye-sockets made it look blind and as if it were crying. The librarian showed us how the inlaid eyes would have fitted, and where tufts of hair were inserted in the holes on the scalp.

We left the library and went into the tiny private dining-room. A sticky-looking, empty medicine bottle was on the sideboard.

“The mixture. To be taken three times a day. His Grace the Duke of Devonshire.” I read. I wondered what it had tasted like and what it was for. If I had been alone I would have smelt the bottle.

The librarian was pointing out the beauties of the little wax pictures on the walls. I lifted one up to get a better light on it, and immediately there was an outcry.

“Don’t touch the things, Welch,” Mr. Williams ordered harshly, and the librarian added more mildly:

“It would be better not to, as one of them has just come back from being mended. A maid knocked it down while dusting.”

I was annoyed and humiliated. I felt, arrogantly, that I could appreciate and take care of the things in the room better than the whole lot of them put together.

The librarian led us into a book-lined study. When the door was shut we were completely surrounded with books. There seemed to be no doors; they were covered with dummy bindings. The fat chairs were upholstered with buttoned red morocco, and the whole room reminded me of brandy-and-soda and cigars.

Before we left we were taken round the gardens. We were shown where the huge conservatory had stood. I imagined all the glass splintering in the air when it was blown up. I did not know what to expect as we stood round the leaden willow tree. I knew that there was something strange about it. When it began to spurt water from its delicate twigs and branches we all jumped back laughing and shouting. The librarian turned the tap off and the mysterious rain suddenly stopped.

We walked back to the khaki ambulance. We said good-bye and got in. As it drove off we all waved to the librarian. He stood like a small black rod in front of the huge lion-coloured building. The fading light just caught his glasses and they glinted again as they had when we arrived.

I noticed two large paper bags that Mr. Williams had taken from under the seat. One held Swiss buns and the other doughnuts.